Its the Father
One of my favorite childhood memories is greeting my father as he came home from work. My brother and I would take our positions on the couch and watch cartoons, always keeping one ear alert to the driveway. Even the best “Daffy Duck” would be abandoned when we heard his car.
I’d run to meet Dad and get swept up in his big arms. He’d put his big-brimmed straw hat on my head, and for a moment I’d be a cowboy. When we went indoors and opened his lunch pail, any leftover snacks—which he always seemed to have—were for my brother and me to split. What more could a five-year-old want?
But suppose my dad, rather than coming home, just sent some things home. No deal. That wouldn’t work. Even a five-year-old knows it’s the person, not the presents. It’s not the frills; it’s the father!
